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Literature Text
Sitting on a park bench is a girl. She's in her late teens, dressed rather respectably, as if she were out on an important date. Her hair is straight, not one strand out of place. Eyelashes curled, mascara dark and daring with complementary eyeshadow that brings out the girls blue eyes. She's waiting for someone, checking her watch which dangles around her wrist on a silvery chain.
Her dress is fashionable, current, and black with a small cinched waist – she is the very picture of perfection. A lot of work went into this outfit; even her shoes are high heeled and sexy. Her legs bare, she crosses them smiling.
He's not late yet then. She glances around, still watching for him, knowing it's too soon. Slowly, time passes and she becomes more and more worried, checking her watch more frequently. Frantically she tries to remember if she had the time right, the day right, the place right.
Re-reading the piece of paper in her hand she is reassured once again that she is right, that she hasn't gotten it wrong. Slowly, she watches the hour hand on her watch move, first half way, then the whole way between two numbers. Eventually she stands, tears in her eyes, and leaves. There was no reason for her to be there, he never loved her, and nothing she can do will change that.
Arriving home she checks her messages. She has one. Pushing play she hears his voice, "Hey, I'm so sorry about today. Something came up. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
The tears she felt in the park overwhelm her now, and she deletes the message through the liquid fogging up her vision. This isn't the first time. Every time it happens she promises her self that she won't trust him, won't let herself believe that this time, for sure he'll be there. Every time it's the same. Something happens and he can't make it, or he has to leave early. Every time she trusts him, and every time it hurts.
She loves him though, and she can't let him go.
Her dress is fashionable, current, and black with a small cinched waist – she is the very picture of perfection. A lot of work went into this outfit; even her shoes are high heeled and sexy. Her legs bare, she crosses them smiling.
He's not late yet then. She glances around, still watching for him, knowing it's too soon. Slowly, time passes and she becomes more and more worried, checking her watch more frequently. Frantically she tries to remember if she had the time right, the day right, the place right.
Re-reading the piece of paper in her hand she is reassured once again that she is right, that she hasn't gotten it wrong. Slowly, she watches the hour hand on her watch move, first half way, then the whole way between two numbers. Eventually she stands, tears in her eyes, and leaves. There was no reason for her to be there, he never loved her, and nothing she can do will change that.
Arriving home she checks her messages. She has one. Pushing play she hears his voice, "Hey, I'm so sorry about today. Something came up. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
The tears she felt in the park overwhelm her now, and she deletes the message through the liquid fogging up her vision. This isn't the first time. Every time it happens she promises her self that she won't trust him, won't let herself believe that this time, for sure he'll be there. Every time it's the same. Something happens and he can't make it, or he has to leave early. Every time she trusts him, and every time it hurts.
She loves him though, and she can't let him go.
Sometimes inspiration sucks.
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